We have to get up some time, she said. They were still in bed as afternoon shadows deepened around them like a scented sea.

Your wife called. She wants you to know that she’s been thrown out of the apartment where she’s been staying and that she’s in a shelter. She has a virus and needs money for a doctor and to eat, and, oh yes, your daughter has lost her shoes. I’m going, this place isn’t much fun today.

SEMITONE SUMMER BY ROBERT MCKEAN 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 35

Were th…